Too tired to post anything from work last night but would like to recommend this brilliant special edition of The Bulletin. It's a tribute special to departed owner Kerry Packer. Some of the biggest and best writers around relate their experiences of the big fella. Link courtesy of Assistant Editor, Tim Blair.

Last night was a pretty lacklustre shift sandwiched between two highlights. Starting late I caught a great radio program by ABC presenter James Valentine. Being a well regarded satirist Valentine proposed an appropiate topic for listeners called ‘Mens Rules’. These are an incontrovertible set of everyday rules practised by men, only understood by men.

It was as funny as buggery (if that’s funny) with listeners nominating their particular male standards. By the end of the show Valentine had compiled over fifty ‘Mens Rules’. I called mine in early, submitting under the pseudonym, ‘Bloke 1',

Where a woman driver fastens her seat-belt before driving off, a bloke always drives off first, then struggles with his seat belt.

Needless to say it was immediately understood and accepted as a bloke's fact of life. Valentine indicated he would list the nominated ‘Mens Rules’ on the ABC website but alas, it’s not to be found. So I’ll list the some of the rules submitted (feel free to lodge your own in Comments),

women are never allowed in the shed, period

only one household job can be undertaken at any one time

that job must be meticulously planned before materials are purchased, which are then left laying around for a certain length of time. This period can only be estimated by men

never consult the manual until the job is considered complete

when in doubt, bash it out

never ever open a mates beer, especially twist tops

a bloke must never question the brand of beer given, but can question its temperature

never give advice to a mate attempting to reverse a caravan or trailer, unless privacy is assured

the default position for all toilet seats is 'up', obviously

whilst standing at the urinal never look down

the only farting permitted at the urinal is of the staccato type, short and to the point

when a scrum collapses in a rugby game, the forwards must never make eye contact whilst regrouping

the household TV remote control is always managed by men - unless it’s lost, thereby becoming the woman’s responsibility

blokes are more qualified than any umpire/referee/match official when watching sport

blokes never open anything with scissors but rather rip, slash or burn things apart

blokes don’t wrap presents

Around 2am towards the end of the shift I arrived at the Opera House to find the New Years Eve icon on the Harbour Bridge undergoing testing. This years symbol is a red heart surrounding a multitude of flashing lights, disco style. No doubt about our City Council, they’re still persisting with last years disco theme and I read complimenting techno music has been prepared and mixed by a DJ. Still, it looked reasonablyimpressive.

Last night I scored a plethora of M3's - passenger no-shows. After one such M3, the third in the space of 20 minutes, a middle aged fella appeared from the dark and waved me down. As I was kerb-crawling looking for the fare there was enough time to size him up and decide, ‘Bugger it, may as well take him, there’s no one else around’. The location was in Malabar, along the side of Long Bay Jail.

After locking the doors and dropping the window I asked, ‘Did you ring for a cab ?’. ‘No’, he replied breathlessly, as if he’d been running, ‘but I’ve got to find my friend in Malabar Road. I haven’t got my wallet or keys because I left my coat in his car’. Now this was real problem, for him. But I was just as intrigued why he was wearing a gaudy orange shirt with an old fashioned three piece suit, minus the jacket...

Worked the full 12 hour shift last night did I. (I know that’s like, not good English but you get the drift). And I did...cough, cough...pretty good. Like really good due to bugger all cabs, lots of boozing and perfect weather for a Christmas Day night.

Indeed, at 11pm police closed off Campbell Parade, fronting Bondi Beach, because of the large numbers of drunks staggering off the beach looking for a cab. Needless to say everyone loved me last night, waving at me constantly and tipping generously....

Just a little forerunner of what I'm getting for Christmas. Basically it's the same tool television uses to produce news reports. Downloaded a trial version last night and quickly whipped up a mix of random phone images. Coupled with a real video camera and webcam it's possible to present voice reports to camera. That's the plan anyway.

My next door neighbour is an old fella who lives alone, with a dog. Once his old mother lived there too but she's been dead ten years now. The old bugger's a kindly old soul with a ready smile, and always up for a laugh. In his day I reckon he was a bit of a rascal, but he won't talk about it.

He's an old digger, has emphysema and is prone to collapsing. With luck it'll happen at the local club which he visits for a few hours each afternoon. Otherwise if he falls at home he'll lay there until he can reach the phone. One day I fear he won't make it.

A community nurse visits once a week and that's about it. Sometimes a long lost relative will show up just to see if he's still alive, ‘in the hope she’ll get the house when I'm gone'. I drop in from time to time and chew the fat but it’s never long enough.

Whilst he doesn't live in squalor, the house is dark, shabby and in need of repair. An old man's poverty. We put his bins out and the other neighbours repair the fence. Otherwise he goes for days without being seen.

A few nights ago I came home at 3 am and unusually saw his light on. Last time this happened he had fallen and was laying on the floor, waiting till dawn to ring a mate. I went to the door and called out but received no answer. Next day he said, 'No worries old mate, I'd probably fallen asleep on the dunny'.

I've just received an email which included a poem, 'T'was the Night Before Christmas'. It describes the old bugger to a 't'....

The workers walked off the job on Wednesday after talks with the Metropolitan Transportation Authority broke down over pension and healthcare costs, leaving about seven million daily subway and bus passengers stranded.

This time of year sees a preponderance of office affairs coming to fruition. The flirting, which has been simmering all year, comes to a head with the dreaded office Christmas party. Throw in a liberal dose of booze, a shared taxi home or back to the office and bingo, they’re all over each other like a rash.

The ones who really disgust me are the middle aged blokes with the much younger colleagues. And yes, despite this being Sydney I’m talking about heterosexuals. There’s nothing more pathetic than the sight in my rear view mirror of a bobbing, balding head, muttering inane and drunken 'sweet nothings'.

Last night I felt like yelling, ‘Mate, give up for God’s sake ! She’s young enough to be your daughter’. But aw no, it’s like, ‘You look so sexy in that dress sweetie’, or, ‘I’ve never realised how your eyes sparkle in the twilight’. Piss off wanker ! Go home to your missus and kids. Christmas, I’m over it.

"Here we have the time-honoured cadet journo ritual of Christmas cabbie bashing. It usually comes about because the pissed and pimple-faced wanker (or wankeress), boss-provided Cabcharge docket in hand, has trouble catching their once-a-year cab after a Christmas party," he wrote. "They just can't figure out why the cabs stop for the polite-looking couples down the road who hailed them after they did, just because the journos were waiving their hands about, yelling, 'Don't you know who I am?' Any chance of a Sydney's worst journo column?".

The author, Ross Nelson first posted this on cabbie forum Ozcabs. Nelson, a master of diplomacy who once served as media man for the NSW Drivers Association, kindly sent the Herald another cabbies reaction to the competition,

"Almost every journalist I have ever had in my taxi has been a pissed and arrogant [insert most offensive word in the English language], consumed with the power they wield over 'lesser beings' and inflated with their own sense of worth to the community," he said. "The reality is that you are all 'owned' by just a few criminally rich manipulators of the public's perception, and simply flutter between the financially better political offerings of just two morally bankrupt political parties. From trade to profession to religion, from fact to favour to fiction, your 'industry' is an absolute sham and you should all be forced to walk around with the word 'FRAUD' tattooed to your foreheads. Merry Christmas, a---holes."

I also take the opportunity of wishing various Sydney Morning Herald journalists a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. And mind the step on your way out.

A reader and ex-cabbie, Rudy, has informed me of a competition being run by the Sydney Morning Herald's Stay in Touch column. In the media's Christmas tradition of cabbie bashing they've decided it would be fun challenging readers to submit tales of their worst taxi experience,

What is your worst, or best, experience in a Sydney taxi ? Keep it short and true. Hire cars don't count (you people have no right to complain).

In the same spirit, I've considered Rudy's suggestion of submitting a tale on my worst fare, which happened last year. Originally I'd posted it but later pulled it after deciding it needed revising, which I've now done. However, as it's too long for the Herald's contest I'll post it here...